The Waiting Game
by Llywela
Summary: When a social gathering erupts into violence, a wounded Aramis finds himself trapped and alone with the Queen. While the other Musketeers plan a rescue, how long can they hold out?


**Title** : The Waiting Game  
 **Show** : The Musketeers  
 **Characters** : Aramis, Anne of Austria, Captain Treville, Athos, Porthos, D'Artagnan, Louis XIII of France  
 **Rating** : PG  
 **Universe** : Once and Future  
 **Summary** : When a social gathering erupts into violence, a wounded Aramis finds himself trapped and alone with the Queen. While the other Musketeers plan a rescue, how long can they hold out?  
 **Disclaimer** : This is a work of transformative fanfiction based on _The Musketeers,_ which belongs to the BBC and to Alexandre Dumas – with just a hint of _Merlin_ , which also belongs to the BBC, as well as to legend. I have borrowed these concepts and characters for this story and am making no profit from this.  
 **Author's Note** : In _Blood of the Living Dead_ , Sir Lancelot was restored to life in 17th century France and built a new life as the Musketeer Aramis, and that story was intended as a one-off. But then I started to wonder how season two might play out in this slightly altered timeline, because in a universe in which Aramis and Anne did not sleep together at the convent, and therefore don't have the enormous secret of the Dauphin's paternity to bind them together, they would have a different relationship going forward. This universe, I felt, might instead build on their interest in one another by giving opportunities for them to spend time together, getting to know one another properly, and build an emotional bond that way, rather than basing an endgame relationship on a one night stand, a shared guilty secret, and a lot of longing looks.  
And then there was this, one of those occasions, set between seasons one and two.

 **The Waiting Game**

The musket ball hit like a punch, sudden and shocking.

It was not the first time the musketeer known as Aramis had been shot, yet each time, he'd discovered, felt new.

As this particular shot slammed into his shoulder in a screaming blaze of white-hot fire, he was knocked sideways from his headlong dash across a too-wide vestibule, the queen stumbling at his side, his body a shield between her and the assailant who'd found them just when they thought they might actually make it.

Fortunate the man was a poor shot, perhaps, but not fortunate enough.

Aramis had already fired both pistols with no opportunity to reload during their headlong flight. As he struggled to regain his feet, the queen in her panic more a hindrance than a help, their attacker tossed aside his only pistol and charged, knife in hand.

The queen must not be harmed. Aramis's left hand was useless. He could do this with only one – had to. He surged upright and forward, drawing his sword just in time for the charging attacker to run straight onto it, victory achieved more by luck than judgement.

Although he would, when he came to tell the story, claim full credit for his skill, of course.

It had seemed such a simple mission, escort duty and nothing more. The king and queen had accepted an invitation to visit the Comte de la Blache and his new bride at their estate on the outskirts of Paris, intended as the last such engagement before the queen's much-anticipated lying in. The visit had been a closely guarded secret, intended as a quiet, relaxing getaway – and such it had been, until a neighbour with a grudge and a well-armed private militia happened to choose the exact wrong moment to mount a startlingly bloodthirsty campaign of vengeance against the Comte for some slight or other that remained unclear.

The attack had caught the Musketeers unawares, scattered around the estate along with their royal charges. Where the king might be now, Aramis could not say – or Porthos and d'Artagnan, for that matter. Athos had been close at hand, but they'd since been separated, Athos providing cover for Aramis to get the queen away from the fighting, and what had become of his friend after that he also could not say. What had become of any of the rest of their party he could not say.

The not knowing nagged at him, anxiety sharp and distracting, but the safety of the queen and her unborn child had to be paramount, before all other concerns, and here and now he was the only protection they had. He'd hoped to get her to safety somehow and return to play his part in driving back the attack, but with his shoulder now a searing mass of fire and blood, mounting a serious defence was out of the question. The only possible course was concealment.

Aramis kept moving, slick of blood down his arm, dripping from his fingers, the queen silent and shocked at his side. Angry shouts sounded near at hand, accompanied by the pounding of feet. More of these raiders were closing in fast and there was no exit they might hope to reach in time – except for a store room, large and cluttered with steps at the rear leading down to a cellar below. He thanked Providence it was unlocked. It would have to do.

Snatching up a lantern from its hook nearby, he ushered the queen into the room and handed her the light while he struggled one-handed to bar the door, allowing his sword to fall at his feet. He was usually rather more fastidious with his weapons, but just now he had neither the time nor the hands for such care.

The queen bent to pick the sword up for him, frightened eyes averted from the blood staining its blade. Her hair had come loose as they ran and tumbled about her face in glorious disarray, her elegant dress failing to conceal her advancing pregnancy – two precious lives in his faltering hands, and the dead-end of the cellar their only refuge.

An old chest stood against the wall nearby. After an experimental tug that did nothing but expose his one-handed weakness, Aramis stepped around to shove it across the door with his hip. The chest protested the movement loudly, and he could only hope no one had heard – or would think to search in here for the killer of the man he'd just left along the hall.

Probably a vain hope, but there was always a chance. It was the only chance either he or the queen currently had.

Eyes adjusting only slowly to the gloom, Aramis led the way down well-worn stone steps into the cellar, clutching at the rail and willing his legs not to give way, not yet, not now. Below he found a small chamber with a number of ante-rooms leading off, some containing stored lumber and old furniture, in others the beginnings of a winter food store, stacked crates and piles of empty sacking held in readiness for the harvest.

"You're bleeding," the queen quietly observed, trailing anxiously in his wake as he tested doors and peered behind them.

"I'm afraid it will have to wait," he told her. They needed to dig in, find a place they mightn't be found, a place that stood at least some chance of proving defensible, if the worst came to the worst. Which of these rooms would be best? Which would be best?

It was getting hard to think, blood pounding in his ears, shirt sticking damply to his skin beneath the leather surcoat, spikes of pain shooting down his arm.

He shook his head to clear the encroaching fog, selected what seemed the best of the poor options available, and set about securing the inner door as best he could.

From above loud shouting now and he froze, reaching to reclaim his sword. The raiders were at the upper door – would they try to gain entry? Or would they move on? The queen placed a hand on his arm, body pressed against his, breath hitching, fingers twitching with nerves, and together they waited, listening intently.

A crash against the upper door was startlingly loud in the stillness of the cellar. Aramis felt the queen jump and tensed in anticipation of what might come next – but what followed was not any further attempt at the door but a volley of gunfire, then more shouts, pounding footsteps moving away.

"They've gone," he whispered. For now, at least, and they'd not been found. Not yet. But there was no telling how long that might last, or what else might be taking place up above. The others were still out there, somewhere, and he allowed himself a moment to fret.

The queen's vice-like grip on his arm eased as she stepped back, gasping her relief. Then her focus shifted to his wounded shoulder, frightened expression settling into resolve.

"You're bleeding," she repeated, more firmly this time. "Tell me what to do, Aramis. I cannot afford to lose my champion now."

He could think of many things more that should be done to secure their position, conflicting priorities jostling for precedence, but the fog was descending again, he felt himself wavering on his feet and knew she was right. The injury had been left too long already, it must be attended if he was to stand any chance of seeing her through this.

So they sat in the flickering light of their wholly inadequate lantern, and the queen without the slightest hesitation removed a fine petticoat worth more, no doubt, than his entire wardrobe, and tore it into strips with the aid of his blade. Then with gritted teeth he talked her through the unpleasant process of packing and dressing the wound. Both sides, for the ball had gone clean through at an oblique angle, entering above the armpit and exiting beneath the shoulder blade – and messily at that, splintering bone along the way, he suspected. A grinding, sickening throb. If he were the medic and another man his patient, he might have made some attempt to assess the extent of the damage – would certainly have proposed needlework as necessity – but in these circumstances, without even water to clean the wound, the most that could be done was attempt to staunch the flow of blood with tight layers of bandage. He set his teeth and breathed through it, quivering involuntarily.

The queen was a beautiful woman, gracious and gentle and all things that were good, and perhaps God had a sense of humour after all, for he had dreamed, treacherously, of her hands on his body, but now the moment came, there could be no pleasure in it. It was, she said, the first time she had ever attempted to dress a wound, and she apologised repeatedly for causing him pain.

"A better job than Athos might have done," Aramis told her in the lightest tone he could muster, but heard his voice shake.

"Is there nothing more I can do?" she asked, eyes fixed on his face, bright with concern. She was wearing gold today. Earlier, he'd admired how the shimmer of the gown in the bright morning sun brought out the glow of her cheeks and the lighter tones in her hair, had enjoyed how often she turned to catch his eye with sweet little smiles that were for him and him alone, and had chided himself for such thoughts when he knew her beyond his reach. Now the dress was beyond salvation as she wiped his blood from her hands onto her skirt.

His coat was also beyond any hope of salvage, ragged holes through the shoulder and heavily stained with blood, considerably more than he'd realised. In some far distant place at the back of his mind he resented the ruin. He _liked_ that coat...

A hand touched his face, startling him, and the buzzing in his ears became a voice. "Aramis? Aramis, talk to me. Tell me what I must do."

He blinked, and the face of the queen swam back into focus, pinched with worry. He'd drifted, forgotten, and knew that this light-headedness meant he'd lost more blood even than he'd thought, but also knew that he could not afford to lose focus now, with the danger not yet over. He tried to think, moistening dry lips with his tongue. What must be done? He'd known this, a moment ago.

"Where are my pistols?" They'd been discarded along with everything else he carried when his coat was removed to allow access to his wound.

As the queen turned to retrieve the pistols, he tried to shift to a more comfortable position without jostling his wounded shoulder, arm strapped tightly to his chest to prevent movement that might exacerbate the bleeding. The hand felt numb, worryingly so, but the fingers moved well enough when he tried an experimental wiggle, more to reassure himself than anything. He'd seen men recover from far worse wounds than this – but he'd also seen them succumb to far less.

But that was a line of thought that was not worth pursuing when there was nothing more to be done about it for now. _Focus_ , he told himself. _Here and now. Focus_. The queen needed him and he could not let her down. He held onto that thought, used it to steady himself as he re-gathered his wits to prepare their defence, in case the worst came to the worst.

So, to add to the lesson in practical first aid already delivered, the queen received now a class in the art of loading a pistol, since he had but the one hand. She again proved an able student, eager to make herself useful if she could. Such a generous spirit was a rare and precious thing in royal circles, a bird in a gilded cage, yearning to be set free. He could not stop himself admiring her.

"I helped prepare ammunition for you once before, do you remember?" she said, glancing up at him through long lashes.

"At the convent, how could I ever forget?" he replied with a smile and the closest approximation of a courtly half bow he could achieve while sitting on the floor with one arm immobilised. He was rewarded with a little huff that might almost have been a giggle in less constrained circumstances. How many people knew that the queen, beneath all that splendour and dignity, had a sense of humour?

This was the first time they'd been alone together since that night at the convent, when things had been said that could not be unsaid, an intimate conversation culminating in a stolen kiss that burned bright in his memory, try as he might to put it behind him. Others might look at her and see only The Queen, but Aramis had seen past the pomp and majesty to the woman behind, so much sweetness and strength, stifled by the formality and loneliness of her life, and having once seen _Anne_ for herself he could not now un-see her.

"I have remembered it often," she admitted with a shy smile and coy sideways glance. They had come dangerously close that night to an act of high treason, his regard for her and enjoyment of her apparent regard for him suddenly no longer a game, no longer a harmless flirtation or distant dream, but rather something tangible and true – and forbidden.

He'd wondered since if she regretted the indiscretion, if she regretted admitting desire for a common soldier, but there was no regret in her eyes now, as she carefully added, "Much has changed since that night."

"God has granted your miracle," he agreed, and her hand dropped to caress her belly, her smile radiant at the thought of her longed-for child. Happiness suited her, and he wondered how anyone could ever wish to see her otherwise.

"Truly an answer to prayer. It will be a boy, I am certain of it." But her smile faltered now, joy subsumed by dread as she gazed around at the dingy cell that was both their refuge and their prison, her voice becoming very small. "If he lives to be born, that is."

"I will not let them harm either you or your child," Aramis swiftly assured her, this promise all the more fiercely given for his fear he may not be able to keep it, painfully aware of how fast his strength was failing him. "I would lay down my life –"

But all at once her hand was in his, and it was not the queen speaking but _Anne_ , fervent and sincere _._ "Let us pray that will not be necessary. Not today, not ever. I could not –"

She broke off, biting her lip. Her eyes were ardent, intense, fingers tight around his, her free hand reaching out to touch the jewelled crucifix she had given him, worn always around his neck as a medal of honour. Then she composed herself, ducked her head and added in more measured tones, "Like his mother, my son will have need of his loyal Musketeers, and that is why you must survive this, my dear, brave Aramis. We cannot do without you."

As a musketeer, he knew himself to be entirely replaceable, but the sentiment was warming nonetheless. They were straying onto dangerous ground, too close to open admission of feelings that could never be acted on, and he sought to lighten the mood. "Oh, this isn't so bad. I have had far worse."

"You were wounded only recently, were you not? When the Musketeers uncovered a cult in the city."

He had been wounded, captured and near murdered by, of all things, a wizard who'd sought to use him as a blood sacrifice in a magic spell, and it was not even the most outlandish thing that had ever happened to him. One of many aspects of his past of which he could never speak openly. In this age, magic and magicians were not merely forbidden, but not known to be real, the mere suggestion considered the foulest of heresies. The queen knew only the public version of the story, and he was annoyed with himself for how stupidly pleased he was that _she remembered_.

"Well recovered now, your Majesty, I assure you." Or had been, at least, until today, but loss of blood now came hard on the heels of loss of blood then, which would not be helping – small wonder he felt so dizzy.

"Still, to be injured again, and so soon –"

"Is tedious, I admit, but it cannot be helped now." He managed a smile, aimed again for something approaching a light tone and flattered himself that he almost achieved it.

She was still holding his hand. They both realised it in the same moment, and she quickly pulled back, flushing.

"I should check the door," Aramis decided, attempting to rise, which was a mistake, the movement jarring his wounded shoulder, a hot bloom of pain that rose to a rapid crescendo, black spots dancing before his eyes and bile rising in his throat.

He leaned against the wall and swallowed hard, waving away the queen's fluttering hands. _Breathe_. _Breathe. Let it pass_.

The door. He was checking the door. When he thought it safe to move again he stepped toward it on unsteady legs to assure himself that all was secure. There was no further sound from above.

"Aramis," the queen called from behind him. She looked very small and frightened, standing there in the shadows, hair falling about her face like a curtain and blood on her gown. "What do you suppose has become of the others – the king?"

It was a question he could not answer.

xxx

"Where is my wife, Captain?" King Louis demanded, pacing about in a frenzy, his grand wig dishevelled and his clothes in disarray. The turbulent events of the day had taken their toll, and it was far from over yet.

Catching Treville's eye, Athos took upon himself to answer, since his was the most recent sighting. "The queen is with Aramis, your Majesty. He will not allow her to come to any harm."

Treville caught his arm, pulled him aside. "Heading toward the east wing, you said."

"When last I saw them."

"That part of the house has now been completely overrun."

Athos refused to panic. Not yet. "They might have made it through before Lecoutier's men got that far."

Treville held his eye, a moment of shared unease. "Let us hope."

"Hope is not good enough, Captain," the King protested. "The queen is carrying my child, my heir – the future of France itself! Your musketeer will protect her, will he not?"

"With his last breath, if need be," Treville stoutly declared.

"Though we sincerely hope it will not come to that," Athos quietly added. Two musketeers had lost their lives already today, the veteran Daudet and a new recruit named Sartou. Neither had been men he knew especially well, but he mourned them none the less for that, and was not prepared to countenance the loss of his friend also.

"But if the musketeer is already dead, what then? Anne herself may be dead already and then what would I do?" the king all but wailed, childlike always in his distress. "Oh, what was the Comte thinking, to invite us here at such a time?"

"I'm sure Comte de la Blache could not have foreseen an attack such as this," said Treville.

"And whatever the initial cause of the dispute, the Comte has paid for it now with his life," Athos grimly pointed out.

"As Lecoutier and his men will pay with theirs," said King Louis with flashing eyes, suddenly regal, imperious even. Such was the eternal contradiction of the man.

And this pronouncement, although only just, was the crux of the matter, of course. The presence of the king had turned what might have been otherwise dismissed as a petty local affair into full blown treason. Lecoutier and his men had taken the house, for now, barricading themselves in quite securely, but could not hope to hold it indefinitely. Therefore they had but two possible avenues of escape – they could attempt to flee in hopes they would not be either caught on the spot or hunted down later for their crimes…or they could attempt to fight it out in hopes of killing every last witness, king and queen included. The current stalemate would likely last only as long as it took them to decide which course of action to pursue – or perhaps only as long as it took them to realise how few musketeers were actually here to oppose them.

Which was, in turn, the _other_ crux of the matter. The Musketeers were heavily outnumbered here, a small detachment only brought along for this mission, at the king's own request. They'd held their own in the initial battle, driving the attackers to this impasse, but keeping the most vital positions covered was now stretching available resources to their limit. A mere handful of loyal men remained, spread around the estate in key positions to maintain the illusion of a siege, and while the raiders might be cornered, they also had the advantage, with clear sight lines across the grounds and more than one sniper in their midst. Aramis and his expert marksmanship would be a useful tool to have available just now, but wishful thinking wasn't going to resolve the stand-off.

The one blessing was that the entrance to their improvised hideout in this outhouse could not be seen from the house. This afforded some protection, at least. So far, the raiders remained either ignorant that the king had taken refuge here or unwilling, yet, to make any further assault on his position.

No sooner had he thought it, than there was a rustle of movement at the door. Athos reached for his pistol, catching Treville's eye, the king whimpering at their backs…

It was Porthos, slithering in with a low whistle to alert them of _friend not foe_.

"D'Artagnan got away safely?" Treville immediately demanded, and Porthos nodded.

"He got away. Help'll be here soon."

"Was he seen?"

A gamble, attempting to get a man out to summon reinforcement, with clear sight lines from the house and snipers at the windows. D'Artagnan was capable of great stealth, had been confident he could find enough cover to get through, but if he'd been seen making his escape, if the raiders suspected reinforcement was coming, who knew what they might do next.

"Hard to say," said Porthos. "They took a couple of pot shots, but I think they were aiming at me, and they saw me run back for cover – might have been distraction enough. Any sign of Aramis?" Their faces, no doubt, told him all he needed to know on that score, but he shook his head determinedly. "He'll be all right. Gone to ground someplace. He won't risk the queen."

"If they are in the east wing with Lecoutier's men, we must confront them," the king suddenly declared. "We must demand the safe return of the queen!"

Alarm flashed in Treville's eyes. "Your Majesty, no, that would not be wise," he protested. "If Lecoutier's men had the queen, they'd have made it known by now. She would be the perfect hostage to ensure their safe retreat, but they have made no such demands, which means they do not have her. Porthos is right, Aramis will have found a hiding place for them. We must not let it be known they are there. Reinforcement will be here soon enough, then we will act."

xxx

There was still no sound from above.

Aramis could think of a number of possible reasons for this, and some of those reasons were even good ones. The fighting might be over, perhaps, and the enemy defeated. It was just as likely, however, that this was merely a prolonged lull in the action, or that the battle had moved to another part of the estate. Or even that everyone else was dead already. From down here in this cellar, there was no way of telling, not without breaking cover, which would mean exposing the queen to renewed danger, which he could not permit. So, for now, they waited. And hoped.

They needed to keep quiet, to listen out for sounds of danger from above, yet instinct compelled him to fill the silence with chatter and assurances, silly little anecdotes offered up as evidence of the invincibility of the Musketeers. Each and every smile he managed to coax from the queen was a salve to his own frayed nerves…but he hadn't the strength to keep it up for long, his eloquence failing him just when he needed it most.

"How will we know when it is safe to go out?" the queen asked at last, when his well of light patter had run dry and the silence was beginning to stretch.

He'd been worrying about that himself. "We won't."

He hadn't meant to say it so bluntly, but blood loss and pain, it seemed, had loosened his control of his tongue, as well as robbing him of his wit – and honesty, perhaps, was for the best anyway. She might as well know the truth. They were in this together.

"We cannot remain in here forever," she argued.

"Not forever," he said, letting his head rest against the wall because holding it up required too much effort, he'd never quite noticed the weight of it before. "Just for now."

She was not reassured, continued to pace about the room in agitation. Lethargic with blood loss, he felt tired simply watching her.

"Your wound requires more proficient medical attention than I am able to provide," she pointed out. "And we both will require food and water before very much longer."

Water. It was a delicious thought, but, "The risk is too great – and your husband would have my head if I exposed you to it."

Her husband. The king. An intractable and inescapable fact of both their lives, to whom she had sworn fidelity and he to protect and serve.

Husbands had not previously posed much of a concern to Aramis, although more than a few of his lovers had had them, but those had been fleeting affairs – wholeheartedly enjoyed, it was true, yet never really anything more than a passing fancy. He loved women and women loved him, and if they indulged one another for a time, what of it? The scruples of his youth had been set aside in this new life that he was so determined to make the most of. A jealous husband was merely a challenge, his affairs invariably short-lived, however infatuated he might feel at the time…but this, though, was different, and not simply because she was _queen_ rather than _wife_.

A similar challenge, perhaps, at first, to admire the queen's beauty and grace from afar and to feel that she admired him likewise. That was merely a game. But it was no longer a game, and he could no longer pretend it was merely his imagination, wishful thinking. Not merely flirtation, not merely a bit of fun. She cared for him, as more than her guard, just as he cared for her as more than his queen. They could never be more to each other than they were, yet they were more to each other than they should be. It was a conundrum without resolution. After all, a husband was one thing when the affair was merely a passing indulgence – another entirely if you were fool enough to fall in love with a queen.

She stilled now, came and sat alongside him, studied her fingers for a moment. "My husband may be dead already."

"You must not think that." He half-turned to meet her eyes as he spoke, without thinking, and moved too fast, a spike of pain shooting through his shoulder, sharp enough to take his breath away.

 _Still. Still. Let it pass_.

"I cannot help but think that," the queen was saying, her face swimming in and out of focus. "I would be alone – a Spanish queen in a hostile land, the heir to the throne not even born..."

"You would not be alone," Aramis assured her between slow, careful breaths. His loyalty was the only thing he had to offer her, humble soldier to his gracious queen.

She managed a tiny smile and took his hand again, gratitude in her eyes. "I know I can rely on my faithful Musketeers."

"Always," he breathed, and it was a promise from him to her. "The Musketeers will not allow the king to be harmed today."

"I hope you are right," she said in a small, sad voice.

Aramis also hoped he was right. The death of the king would be a disaster. He tried to work out how long they had been here and how much longer they should wait, how long until remaining in hiding was a greater risk than venturing out. Hard to focus on anything but the relentless throb of his shoulder, like thinking through fog, like thinking through sand. How long? How long...?

"Aramis?" The queen's voice jolted him awake. He hadn't realised his eyes had closed. He peeled them open and focused with some difficulty on her anxious face. "I'm sorry, I wasn't sure if I should wake you. I believe I have found a cask of wine."

Wine. Fluid. He was suddenly aware of how very dry he was. "Show me."

Standing cost more effort than he could truly afford. If the enemy found them now, he wouldn't stand a chance, and therefore neither would she. He put the thought from his mind and concentrated on setting one foot in front of the other, too shaky, far too shaky, the queen hovering at his elbow.

She had found wine, a forgotten cask shoved into a dark corner, overlooked in the haste and struggle of the too-cursory scan he'd made of the room on entry. It was the first true piece of luck they'd had all day. Aramis beamed at her in delight and felt buoyed by the radiance of the smile she returned.

It took both of them to successfully prise the lid from the barrel, but at last they were able to drink, the liquid hitting parched tongues as blessed relief. The queen laughed a little now, remarked how absurd it was that this long-buried treasure unearthed from a dusty store room should taste better somehow than the finest wines she'd ever enjoyed at the very grandest of state banquets.

"An illusion, I suppose," she added more sombrely, and then glanced sideways at him and quietly said, "Your wound is bleeding again."

Aramis squinted hazily at what he could see of it. The wound, he suspected, had never completely stopped bleeding. It had simply taken until now to soak through the layers of bandage. And he'd perhaps moved about a bit much. Unavoidable but it would not have helped.

"Is there much blood?"

She bit her lip, which he took to mean yes. "What can I do?"

He shook his head, felt again the weight of it. The temporary boost given by the discovery of the wine had well and truly worn off, leaving enervation in its wake. Heavy head and heavy eyes. How much blood had he lost?

"There is nothing more to be done here. Don't let me sleep." If he passed out now, he might not wake again, and he'd promised she would not be left alone.

"Very well." She perched on the edge of a dusty old crate – the Queen of France, better accustomed to a throne – and regarded him thoughtfully. "If you are not to sleep, then you must talk to me, Aramis. Tell me something of yourself. How did you come to join the Musketeers?"

"Captain Treville. The regiment was newly formed – he'd heard my name spoken of, offered a commission." He usually told the story rather better, embellished under normal circumstances with an elegant dramatic flourish, but it was becoming a struggle to put words together and they came out slightly slurred, despite his best efforts.

"Then you were hand-selected for the regiment? That is quite an honour."

"A very great honour," he breathlessly agreed. "But not mine alone. The Musketeers are all hand-selected."

"And before that? I've never quite been able to place your accent. Where do you come from, Aramis?" Her head was tilted toward him, curiosity in her eyes.

 _Where did he come from?_ For a moment he could only stare at her, aware that there was danger in this question but too muzzy-headed to evade it. Where he came from was so very far away, lost in the mists of time, but no one could know that, he'd spent years making himself a native of this land. A thick haze was settling over his mind, muffling all thought, but there was a safe version of the answer and he gave it almost by rote. "I was born in a tiny village no one has ever heard of."

A village that no longer existed, of which he only rarely now allowed himself to think, but just for a moment he was there again, a young boy without any idea of what lay ahead of him. He'd seen such remarkable things in his life, experienced such wonders.

"And _Aramis_ , I believe, is a nickname." The queen's voice seemed to come from a very long way away. "So what did they call you in your tiny village no one has ever heard of?"

"Lancelot," he said without thinking, because it was true, but he knew at once that this was wrong, that wasn't the name he should use, not here. Lancelot was dead, he'd died over a thousand years ago, and no one could know that.

"Lancelot," the queen repeated, and he enjoyed the sound of his name on her lips. "An uncommon name. Where, then, did _Aramis_ come from?"

He blinked at her in confusion, past and present blurring, his former identity and the one he'd assumed swimming together in his mind. He was Lancelot, and he was Aramis. He was a Knight of Camelot. He was a King's Musketeer. He'd been born in a tiny village in Albion, destroyed by bandits a thousand years ago. He'd come into being on a tumbledown farm in rural France, restored to life at the whim of a madman with a spell book. Which was which and who was who? Which story belonged to which name? Who was he really?

"My name is René d'Aramitz," he managed at last, but that was wrong too, he'd borrowed the name from a dead man and it had never quite fit, never quite felt right, so he'd found instead an alternate version of the name to make his own. _Aramis_ was who he'd chosen to be.

All at once, the queen was beside him, and he hadn't seen her move. She raised to his lips the tarnished silver bowl they'd found in lieu of a cup, her other hand pressed to the nape of his neck, fingers curling into his hair.

"Drink this," she said, and the command was gentle but a command nonetheless, so he drank and let himself be soothed, and tried to focus, here and now. Lancelot was long gone and it was Aramis in this cellar with the Queen of France.

She sat back and regarded him curiously, head tilted to one side. "So your name is René d'Aramitz, you were called Lancelot as a boy, and now you are Aramis. You are either very confused, or you have had quite an interesting past."

A faint chuckle escaped. "Both, I believe," he could not help but admit.

Her smile was bright but brittle. "Then I should very much like to hear that story someday, but just now I think we must leave this place." He shook his head, certain this was not a good idea however grateful he was for the change of subject, but she was adamant. "I think we must. I will not sit here and watch you fade away for want of a surgeon."

"Better that than we both get shot the moment we step past that door," he countered, alarm doing more to clear his mind than almost anything else might have done...but only now did it occur to him that perhaps they may not be able to leave, even should they choose. The chest – he'd pushed a chest across the upper door, and doubted now he'd be able to move it again, not in this condition. The queen certainly could not.

She was speaking again, arguing, at her most regal, and her regard for his life might have pleased him did it not pose such a threat to her own, because stirring from this refuge would be dangerous, for reasons he'd already articulated and would again now if his brain and tongue would only cooperate.

The debate was abruptly ended by a disturbance from above – voices shouting, what sounded like a fight, then gunfire, just beyond the upper door.

Alarmed, Aramis startled to his feet without thinking and felt a wrenching, white-hot stab of pain through his shoulder at the abrupt movement, disorienting in its intensity. For a long, lurching moment the world tilted precariously, then his knees buckled, and he fell, sideways into a towering stack of crates against the wall.

His wounded shoulder hit first and the pain washed over him like fire, robbing him of all breath, all thought, all reason, vision narrowing and greying and dimming…

"Aramis? Aramis! Aramis, please." He felt hands on him, pulling him onto his back and patting at his face, stroking his hair, and he could breathe again now, and remembered where he was.

"Majesty," he wheezed, when he could speak again, and she all but collapsed across him in relief.

"Thank goodness." It was almost a sob. Her hands cupped his face, warm breath on his cheek as she bent forward to press her forehead against his, an unguarded moment of unrestrained tenderness, fingers twining through the curls at his temple. Then she jerked back, fear in her eyes. "What should we do? They will have heard that, surely?"

The crash those crates had made could not fail to have been heard. The shouting up above was louder now, someone rattling at the upper door, this refuge no longer safe – but there was nowhere to go. They were trapped, sitting ducks for whoever came through that door, and it was his fault – his weakness that had given them away.

But the queen was suddenly staring past his shoulder at the wall where the crates had been stacked, her eyes lighting up with wonder.

"Aramis, look," she cried as he attempted to turn to see what she'd seen, set into the wall and no longer concealed. "There's a door there, a hidden door!"

xxx

Saumarez was still in position – thoroughly miserable and more than a little worse for wear after the battle earlier but basically intact and on watch for any movement to the north or west of the house. Without backup, there wasn't a great deal he could do, beyond attempting to raise the alarm, if Lecoutier's increasingly twitchy men chose to break out, but awareness of the Musketeer presence around the estate seemed to be holding them. The illusion of a siege was working…for now.

Athos managed a few rough words of encouragement before steeling himself for his next run, glancing up at the windows of the house where Lecoutier's sniper remained annoyingly alert. This time, he only narrowly avoided a shot from above as he made his dash to the position east of the house where Charlot had dug in for the long haul.

He usually aimed for more stealth on scouting missions, but needs must. If nothing else, allowing them to catch glimpses of him moving about like this served as a reminder to Lecoutier's men of the opposition that awaited them, should they make any hostile move – and, if they were very lucky, might even continue to fool them into believing that opposition to be larger than it actually was.

The point, Athos thought, had been sufficiently made. The perimeter was as secure as it was going to get, in the circumstances. Darting from one point of cover to another, he swiftly made his way back to the improvised hideout where Treville and Porthos, standing guard over the king and the newly widowed Comtesse, awaited his report.

"There's a lot of movement in there now. Dissent in the ranks – they appear to be fighting among themselves."

"Good," said Treville with a sigh. "Perhaps they'll kill each other off and save us a job."

"What about Anne?" the king demanded. "Did you see my wife, is she there?"

"I did not see her, your Majesty, and I did not expect to," Athos told him in the measured tone that was necessary when dealing with the King even on a good day. "If the queen and Aramis are still in there, they are well hidden and likely to remain so until they can be sure it is safe to come out."

Either that or they were both dead already, but he chose not to consider that a possibility.

"And when will that be?" King Louis turned on Treville once more. "It has been hours now, Captain. The queen is missing, Lecoutier's men run amok in the Comte's house, and we sit here and do nothing."

"We do not have the men to make a fight of it, not until d'Artagnan returns with the rest of the regiment," Treville patiently pointed out for the umpteenth time. He remained diplomatic enough not to add that bringing such a small guard for this visit had been the King's own idea, insisted upon against all advice. Athos admired the man's restraint. "Lecoutier's men are contained, for now. We wait."

"They have not realised yet how few men we have here," Athos added. "If they were to make an offensive move now, there would be little we could do to counter them, as few as we are. Better not to force their hand by any incautious move until reinforcement arrives."

"It won't be long now," Treville said. "D'Artagnan would have reached the garrison long since, and the regiment was left on standby. They will be here soon."

"They are here now," a new voice interjected, startling them all. Athos had his pistol in his hand before he realised it was d'Artagnan, returning so silently to their hideout they'd none of them seen or heard his approach.

Treville's pistol was also in his hand, and d'Artagnan smiled faintly, raising his hands in both apology and mock surrender. "Sorry, didn't meant to scare you – aren't we posting a watch in life-and-death situations anymore?"

Treville glared. "Where are the others?"

"Close, ready to move in when we give the signal. Has Aramis turned up?"

Athos shook his head. "He's still in there somewhere – with the queen. And that rabble are on edge. They could break at any moment. We'd never contain them. We can't wait for cover of darkness."

"A diversion of some kind, then." Treville looked thoughtful, sucking in his cheeks as he contemplated the problem.

"Captain." Porthos spoke up now, approaching from the quiet corner in which he'd been attempting to comfort the Comtesse de la Blache, distraught over both the murder of her husband and her first experience of pitched battle and bloodshed. There was a light in his eye and a faint smile tugging at his lips that suggested good news. "Did you know there were hidden tunnels beneath the estate here?"

"No, but it doesn't surprise me," said Treville. "Many of these old estates have them."

"The Comtesse has been telling me about them," Porthos continued. "Her husband showed her. There's one comes out near here, she's pretty sure we can get to it without being seen from the house – leads straight into the cellar beneath the east wing."

Athos saw his meaning at once. "We can use that."

Porthos nodded. "That's what I'm thinking – they'll never see it coming."

"What do you mean?" the king chipped in, frowning. "What do you intend?"

It was Treville who explained. "Lecoutier's men are an undisciplined rabble, your Majesty, but they have the advantage of us in two regards. They possess greater numbers, and a secure base from which to operate. Any direct assault would almost certainly incur heavy casualties. It's what they're expecting, they'll be ready to meet it."

"They won't, however, be expecting an attack from the rear," Athos continued.

"So we send a squad through the tunnel to pop out of the cellar and take them by surprise," said Porthos. "Then the rest of the regiment hits them while they're distracted."

The king actually looked impressed. "An admirable strategy. Will it work?"

Treville lifted an eyebrow. "It will certainly tilt the odds in our favour, your Majesty."

"And then we will search for the queen," the King firmly stated, as if they needed any reminder.

"Yes," said Treville. "Then we will search for the queen."

 _And Aramis_ , Athos thought.

xxx

The lantern was burning low just when they needed it most, guttering dangerously as they ventured into the tunnel that lay beyond the hidden door they'd found.

"There are secret passages like this at the palace," the queen remarked, a slight quaver to her voice betraying her nerves. "Louis showed them to me when we were first married. We played in them like children – we were so young…"

Stumbling along at her side, Aramis concentrated on the sound of her voice and tried not to think about the blood running down his arm and back and chest; his fall had dislodged the impromptu dressing and re-opened the wound. He was running out of time. They were both running out of time, the enemy behind – would they have broken through into the cellar yet? There'd been no possibility of concealing the secret door once more as they made their escape, it would be discovered in minutes when the raiders broke through.

He could barely stand, let alone put one foot before the other. He could not fight. He would have to fight. He would not let them harm the queen, not while there was breath in his body. When he was gone she'd be alone, with the enemy upon her. He had promised she would not be left alone.

He tried to focus on the image she'd conjured, the child bride playing with King Louis in secret passages at the Louvre, and croaked, "It must be hard, to be married at such a young age."

But then, what had he been doing at fourteen? Fending for himself after the destruction of his village. Life was easy for no one, in a world of different ways.

The lantern guttered wildly one last time and finally extinguished, plunging them into darkness, vivid after-images dancing before his eyes as the queen clutched his arm tight, gasping.

"Keep going," he muttered, for his own sake perhaps rather more than for hers. "Keep going." The tunnel was narrow and curved away ahead of them. They would have to proceed now by feel. Easier said than done – he had only one hand, and the queen was holding it.

Tentative steps, shuffling in the dark, blood working its way down his leg into his boot. It was getting harder and harder to breathe, harder and harder to stand, harder and harder to move. The weight of his own body was too much. He must not fall again. He'd not get back up another time. He must not fall again.

"Becoming friends was easy, in the beginning." The queen's voice came trembling through the darkness, a beacon for his faltering consciousness to cling to. "We were in the same position, no one else could understand. We grew up together – like brother and sister." She hesitated now, but darkness and danger made even the most personal of confessions that much easier. "What is hard is learning later to live as man and wife in the truest sense. We did not choose one another, yet we are bound together for life."

Silence for a breath. Then another. _Keep going_.

"And you, Aramis." It took a moment to realise she was addressing him. A question, soft and sincere. "Have you never considered marriage?"

It was an effort to speak, the words tangling on his tongue, thick and slow.

"Once, perhaps." Long ago, so very long ago, when he was another man living another life, a would-be knight with eyes only for a certain lady's maid, neither one of them any idea what the future held. Such a fleeting dream before life stepped in and sent them spinning in other directions. How different everything might have been. "But I had nothing to offer. Still don't."

Her fingers tightened around his. "I'm certain that is not true."

He knew, though, that it was.

"Aramis, you must keep moving."

He hadn't been aware that he'd stopped, slumping against the rough stone wall. A moment. He just needed a moment. But there was not a moment to take. He forced his legs to stumble forward again.

"Talk to me, Aramis. Please." An edge to the voice now, sharp like fear, like desperation. "Tell me about the girl you wanted to marry. What was her name?"

"Gwen." Her face swam before his eyes, smile like sunlight, a thousand years gone. The memory no longer hurt. First love lingered, incomparable, but it had been his choice to let her go, all those years ago. He knew she'd lived well and no longer thought of her often. That life was over and done with.

"Another uncommon name. Where is she now?"

"Dead." It came out as a whisper. They were all dead, everyone he'd known. But this was a new life. He did not want it to end here in the dark.

 _Keep moving_ , he reminded himself. Feet stumbling, breath hitching. Boot beginning to squelch. Was that a sound, echoing through the tunnel?

A chill swept over him. They were not going to make it.

Then the voice again, keeping him grounded, something to cling to. "I'm sorry. Has there been no one since?

No one since what? He tried to think. No one since Gwen? There had been lots of someones. Everyone knew that.

So he said, "Yes." And then said, "No. Not the same."

Not the same. He'd never allowed himself to love any of them, not really, whatever he might have told himself at the time. Love brought only pain, he'd sought instead distraction. But even that no longer worked. How had he ended up here again, loving a woman he could never have?

The sound came again just then, echoing through the tunnel, bringing with it a jolt of adrenaline that would not last and for which he would later pay dearly, should he live that long. It cleared his mind as perhaps nothing else could at this point. He stilled, listened intently. He was not imagining it. How long did they have?

 _Keep moving_.

 _Keep moving_.

The sound was louder now, a rattle and a crash, reverberating. It was close. Too close. How far had they come? He felt light, as though he were floating. Too tired to think. Too tired to breathe. He must not fail now.

Another rattle, another step, they rounded a corner and he suddenly knew. It was the end.

They'd reached the end of the tunnel, blessed daylight filtering in around the frame of the door barring their escape – and someone was out there, trying to break in.

Aramis wavered on his feet, sluggish brain slow to react. Enemy behind, enemy ahead. The lives of the queen and her child in his hands, and no possible means of escape.

He reached for a pistol, tried to steady himself, tried to think. He had two pistols, both loaded, but only one useable hand. How many men might be out there? He would not last long enough to draw the second.

So he pushed the gun into the queen's faltering hands. Had she fired a pistol ever in her life? No matter. If he could not defend her, she must be given means to defend herself.

As he reached for the second pistol, he was surprised when she stepped closer, hands fumbling at his waist. She pulled his sword from the scabbard and stepped back, and in the oh-so dim light he saw both terror and resolve in her eyes – the Queen of France, so elegant and refined, so afraid, yet prepared to fight for the life of her child if she must, and he marvelled anew at her strength.

The door rattled again, sticking in its frame.

Anne held his eyes, nodded. Nothing more to be said. They both knew how this would end.

Aramis turned and positioned himself in front of the queen, his failing body once again a shield for hers, pistol at the ready, willing his hand not to shake, his legs not to fold.

Another rattle, another shout – and the door flew open.

xxx

With Porthos and Treville left to lead the assault as the rest of the regiment made their charge, Athos had only the merest handful of men to take with him in search of the hidden passage identified by the Comtesse. It was a risk, recalling the men on watch to join with d'Artagnan and himself for the mission, leaving those positions unmanned, but there was nothing else for it. They needed the manpower, there was no time to spare – the rabble holed up inside the house could not fail to have realised that something was afoot. The Musketeers must make their move before Lecoutier and his men could take any action of their own.

They found a trapdoor at the rear of the stable block, beneath which were steps leading down to a door which was not locked but rather swollen with age and disuse, sticking tight in its frame. It stubbornly refused to open, every rattle and every crash of their attempts scraping sharply across raw nerves. If the enemy heard this noise, they would be forewarned…

The door flew open at last. Weapons at the ready, Athos ventured into the tunnel and found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

"Aramis!" Improbably, impossibly, it was Aramis. White as a sheet with one arm heavily bound and strapped, shirt liberally streaked with blood, glassy-eyed and wobbling visibly on his feet…but the hand that held the pistol was steady as a rock, aimed squarely between the eyes.

A second or two ticked by, agonizingly drawn out, a moment in which the world itself seemed to be holding its breath. Then a belated flash of recognition as Aramis registered Athos and let his arm drop.

An instant later, his eyes rolled back into his head and he abruptly folded onto his knees, slumping sideways against the wall to reveal the queen standing behind him with blood on her dress, a pistol clenched tightly in one hand and a rapier, of all things, in the other, white-knuckle grip, shaking like a leaf.

Athos was already lunging forward to catch Aramis before he could fall further, and it was left for d'Artagnan to dart past him to the queen, who crumpled into his arms almost sobbing with relief.

"Oh, thank goodness, thank goodness." She allowed d'Artagnan to gently take the weapons from her before she could wound herself or anyone else with them.

"Are you hurt, your Majesty?" Athos demanded, alarmed by the blood smeared across her dress and picturing only too clearly the king's fury if she were harmed in any way, but with his arms too full of wounded musketeer to check for himself.

"I am unharmed," she replied, voice tremulous yet dignified, her habitual poise recovering already. "But Aramis needs a surgeon. He has lost a great deal of blood."

Athos could see that much for himself, a flare of alarm twisting in his gut at the sight of his friend's pallor and laboured breathing

"He's making a habit of it lately," he said, attempting to rouse him. "Aramis? Aramis!"

There was no response and precious little time to lose, the rest of the regiment waiting even now for their diversion to begin the assault.

"Athos," d'Artagnan murmured, fidgeting anxiously.

"I know, I know. Come on, Aramis." Athos tried patting at his cheek and this time was rewarded by a flinch and a grumble, uninjured hand flailing feebly to push him away. "That's more like it. We need to get you out of here. Can you stand?"

Without opening his eyes, Aramis mumbled something that sounded like, "I'm up."

"Guess again," Athos told him, and as his eyes fluttered open at last, Aramis seemed genuinely surprised to find himself on the floor. Then those unfocused eyes were turned upon Athos, lips framing a question he couldn't quite manage to vocalise. Athos knew him well enough to understand anyway and quickly said, "The queen is here. She's safe."

Aramis sighed and nodded – then became agitated, clutching at his sleeve. "Athos…behind…."

A complete sentence was apparently beyond him. Athos tried to understand. "Behind?"

"Behind us." It was the queen who spoke now, voice edged with anxiety. "They were trying to break into the cellar – they'll find this passage almost at once when they do."

So much for the element of surprise, and yet not an insurmountable problem, if they moved fast. The intention had always been to focus the attention of Lecoutier's men upon the cellar as a diversion from the regiment's main attack. The main thing now was not to be caught in this tunnel, which was far too cramped to make a decent fight of it.

Athos made a rapid recalculation and came to a swift decision. "D'Artagnan, take Aramis and the queen to re-join the king. Send for a surgeon as soon as you deem it safe to do so. There will likely be further need of one before the day is out. The rest of us will continue as planned."

D'Artagnan nodded, crouching low to swing Aramis's uninjured arm over his shoulder and carefully lever him to his feet. Aramis swayed dangerously as soon as he was upright and almost took them both down again, but all at once the queen was at his other side, helping to support him with a level of concern and solicitousness that went far beyond what might be considered proper for a queen and her guard, even in these straitened circumstances.

Athos felt another flare of anxiety that this time had nothing to do with his friend's injury. He'd hoped that this… _fondness_ Aramis and the queen had for one another might have faded by now, before anyone else could notice and pass comment, but that hope had clearly been in vain. They had been alone together for hours.

It was only now, he noted, that the queen thought to ask after the safety and wellbeing of the king.

He opted not to watch as d'Artagnan, with the queen's not entirely effectual but very eager aid, all but carried Aramis up the steps, instead returning his focus to the mission at hand: leading the remainder of his team deeper into this underground passage toward the cellar where they might find the enemy awaiting them.

The tunnel was narrow, drops of blood here and there gleaming darkly in the flickering lantern light to mark the passage of Aramis and the queen in the opposite direction. Athos and his men had to move quietly to avoid forewarning the enemy of their approach, and knew they must be close when they heard banging and shouts from somewhere up ahead.

At the end of the tunnel, an open door lead into a small store room, a pile of crates strewn haphazardly across the floor. Also strewn across the floor were Aramis's surcoat, pauldron and other accoutrements he'd not attempted to reclaim for his flight, the puddles of blood larger here, testament to an injury that had required medical attention hours since.

Athos could not afford to worry about that now. D'Artagnan would take care of it.

The other door in the room was shut tight, clumsily barred with an old broom handle and an uneven heap of boxes, bloody handprints telling their own story. From beyond, more bangs and crashes, and the disgruntled shouts of Lecoutier's men, who had not yet succeeded in breaking into the cellar, although it was certainly holding their attention, just as planned – if a little ahead of schedule.

Athos signalled his men to clear the door, as quickly and quietly as possible, and then ventured very cautiously up a set of worn stone steps into a cluttered storeroom above, where a heavy chest lay across the door – a door that was even now being pounded on, bar already broken, that chest the only thing preventing the enemy from gaining entrance, and even that was failing, its feet scraping sharply along the stone floor as each shove from beyond forced it back. They would be through at any moment.

With silent hand gestures, Athos instructed the Musketeers to conceal themselves, weapons at the ready, every eye trained on that door. The room was a hopeless bottleneck, but the enemy could not know what awaited them once they broke through, which gave the element of surprise to the Musketeers.

A final crash, the chest overturned, the door flew open.

A moment of silence followed. The raiders at least had the sense to be cautious before entering a potentially hostile space. At last the first man ventured through the door, pistol in one hand and blade in the other.

"Who's there? Show yourselves!" he shouted. Throaty accent, a gutter thug in over his head – and drunk, moreover, by the sound of it. The invaders had found la Blache's wine store.

Athos caught the eye of the nearest musketeer and gestured silently to wait as more men pressed into the room behind the first, their caution fading into irritation long before they could be certain the space they were entering was safe. A sloppy, ill-disciplined rabble. Athos waited until they had begun to argue among themselves over whether or not they really had heard noises from the cellar, before he signalled the men to attack.

The Musketeers were hopelessly outnumbered, increasingly so as the alarm was raised and more raiders came running, and this crowded storeroom was a wretchedly unsuitable field of battle. But they had discipline and training on their side and, crucially, weren't actually fighting to win against those odds so much as simply stay alive until reinforcement arrived. The mission was to stave, to delay, to distract – and it worked.

Athos ducked beneath a wildly slashing sword and stabbed his opponent in the gut in a single movement, swung around to kick another man away from Saumarez, and then heard a roar from outside that signalled the arrival of the regiment.

The disorganised and drunken raiders dissolved into utter chaos.

With the press of bodies lifting as the raiders about-faced and rushed back out to meet the onslaught, Athos fought his way toward the door. Swing, slash, punch, stab – there was a rhythm to this kind of melee and he fell into it with an ease born of great experience.

Beyond the storeroom was a wide vestibule, and in it, fighting at the vanguard of the regiment, was Treville. Athos swiftly worked his way toward him.

"The queen is safe."

There was no time, in the thick of the fighting, to say more. It was enough. Athos spun around to hack at another of Lecoutier's men and found Porthos behind him.

"And Aramis?" the big man demanded.

"Alive. Wounded." Again, it was enough. For now.

The battle was fierce while it lasted, but mercifully swift, with the full weight of the regiment now at hand to crush the opposition. Lecoutier himself and the most senior of his lieutenants took longest to round up, taking advantage of the chaos to attempt an escape – but then, all at once, the struggle was over.

As Treville set about securing the prisoners – Porthos all but sitting on Lecoutier to prevent his escape – Athos was sent back to the king's outhouse refuge to report victory. He found d'Artagnan on guard, restless and alert for news.

"It's over?"

"It's over."

Athos ducked through the door. Beyond it sat the huddled assortment of household refugees they'd gathered after the initial assault, while at the far end of the room the king held himself aloof, childlike and querulous.

The queen sat at his side, holding his hand and murmuring reassurances, the very image of the dutiful wife…but Athos sincerely hoped that none but he might notice that her eyes remained fixed all the while upon Aramis, who lay stretched out on the floor opposite, supported by the cadet Charlot. Alarmingly grey in the face, breath coming in harsh, laboured little gasps, he was at least awake, more or less, watching with drowsy wariness as a fussy little physician tightly re-bound and strapped his wounded shoulder.

"Casualties?" D'Artagnan had followed Athos inside.

"Nothing to trouble the doctor, at least on our side. Where did you find him?" He hadn't in all honesty expected a physician to be so swiftly procured, urgent though the need was.

"The Comtesse sent to the village for –"

"Athos!" The king had seen him. "Is there news? Have we won?"

"We have, your Majesty. It's over."

As Athos strode across the room, he saw Aramis turn his head at the sound of his voice, struggling to sit up – Charlot and the physician swift to restrain him. Instinct wished to go to him, but the first duty of a musketeer was to the king, always. Athos instead met his eyes and knew that the message would be understood: _Rest now, brother. All is well_.

xxx

Through the thick haze that had settled over his mind, Aramis was dimly aware of a strong pair of arms lifting him onto the rough surface of a cart and carefully arranging him against the broad chest associated with those arms.

Somewhere, possibly not as far off as it seemed, there were voices, registering as sound rather than words – this one querulous and demanding, that one brusque and reassuring, another sweet and low, and immediately behind him a deep rumble that sounded like _safety_ and _home_.

 _Porthos_ , his brain belatedly supplied, and he thought perhaps he should say something, because there had been a mission, hadn't there? Something was tickling at the back of his mind, but he couldn't seem to move, not even to open his eyes, so perhaps it could wait.

It would have to wait.

Aramis allowed himself to drift back to sleep.

Some indeterminate length of time later, he awoke feeling sore and groggy, with a vague sense of something left undone, a troubling stray thought he could not pin down.

The queen. He had been guarding the queen, remembered now the attack and their flight, the cellar, and a door – a door with the enemy behind it, about to break through at any moment –

"Aramis? Are you awake?"

Athos. And just like that, the rising anxiety was gone, leaving relief in its wake. Athos then, arriving in the very nick of time to lift the burden of responsibility from his shoulders, and Athos now, sitting nearby with a book in his hand, and beyond him the familiar confines of the garrison infirmary.

"Don't try to get up. How do you feel?" Athos asked, setting the book aside.

Aramis tested his voice and found it weaker than he'd have liked, somewhat hoarse, but functional. "Been worse."

"Coming from a man who has been dead twice, that doesn't actually mean as much as you might suppose," Athos replied with a roll of his eyes, and Aramis huffed a little chuckle that was more surprise than amusement.

"We're joking about that now, are we?" His resurrection was usually strictly off-limits, even in private, a subject to be danced around rather than directly addressed. "Good to know."

Reaching for a jug on the table to pour a glass of water, Athos raised an eyebrow, the eyes beneath warm and reassuring, although his voice remained dry as a bone. "A complete sentence. You must be feeling better. Drink this."

Aramis sipped from the glass held to his lips and tried not to dwell on the memory this act shook loose of _Anne_ , and a tarnished silver bowl and a casket of wine unearthed from a dusty corner of their refuge.

"Nothing that won't heal," he murmured. The shoulder ached mercilessly, but already the pain was less than it had been, and the lassitude born of blood loss would pass. It always did. He was awake and he was lucid, which meant the worst was already over.

The infirmary door burst open and Porthos entered, wearing a beaming smile upon finding him awake, and behind came d'Artagnan, full of teasing for having swooned at the sight of Athos. Aramis could not deny the charge, although he might wish to have taken a rather less ignominious leave of the queen, after all they'd shared. He would have liked, if nothing else, to thank her. She had been remarkable throughout. Would anyone have thought to tell her so? It was unlikely he would now get the chance.

He lay back and allowed the sound of his friends talking to wash over him, soothing and familiar, but could not quite summon the energy to join in, and after a short while Athos began to usher the others toward the door.

"Aramis needs to rest. We'll look in on you again later."

"Athos."

The call was out before he could censor it, before he'd taken even a second to reflect – a desire for counsel, perhaps, a reflex.

So Athos returned and stood beside his cot, wearing a quizzical expression, and Aramis tried to assemble his thoughts.

"I think," he said once the others had gone and they were alone, faltering now, because the memory was foggy, he'd been so confused, but he was certain that what he remembered was true. "I think I might have told the queen my real name."

And that should not matter…and yet it might.

Athos frowned. "Why would you do that?"

"I was bleeding to death at the time," he pointed out, and Athos accepted this defence with a nod. He'd been wounded himself often enough to know what pain and blood loss could do to a man's mind.

"What did the queen say?"

"She thought it an odd name," Aramis seemed to recall.

The corner of Athos's lip curled slightly, as if to suggest that he agreed. "But you said nothing else? No mention of Camelot or Merlin or anything else of that nature?"

Aramis shook his head, the movement bringing on a renewed wave of dizziness, just when he'd thought he was past all that.

"No," he said, but then honesty compelled him to add, "I don't think so. I don't remember."

That was the trouble. He could not actually be sure what he had said. So much of that conversation was shrouded by the fog of his injury. They had spoken of Gwen, perhaps – had he mentioned her name? He could not now recall, but the nickname, he knew, had not survived as part of the legend that now surrounded the kingdom in which he'd once lived, so probably his slip meant nothing at all.

Yet there was a reason his past was never spoken of, even among those who knew it all. The slightest indiscretion, it was felt, could be the start of a dangerous slippery slope that would end on a pyre. The merest hint of witchcraft and magic would be enough, actual evidence was not always required, and Cardinal Richelieu would do anything to discredit a musketeer – and with him, perhaps, the entire regiment.

Whatever little he had said could not possibly be incriminating, surely? Only a fool would even begin to suspect that a man might conceivably be raised from the dead after a thousand years – there were days he himself struggled to believe it could be true, and he'd experienced the miracle directly. And the queen was no fool. So he'd mentioned that he shared a name with a legend, what of it? Even if he had said more than he now recalled, there was no reason to suppose she might somehow make the impossible connection and begin to wonder, still less that she should mention his fevered ramblings to anyone.

He trusted her.

But he had been known to fool himself, before now, and so trusted Athos's judgement rather more than his own, watched his friend closely as he considered the matter.

"From what you have said," Athos slowly concluded, "I would imagine that the queen will dismiss as nonsense anything truly outlandish you may have muttered in your delirium. She is well aware of the severity of your injury – but I am sure you don't need me to warn that you must keep a more careful guard on your tongue, Aramis. If the truth ever should come out…"

He allowed the sentence to trail away, unfinished. Aramis felt horribly tired, all of a sudden.

"Well, the Cardinal would be delighted, I'm sure."

"Then don't give him the satisfaction," said Athos, stern now. "But exposure of your past is not the only threat here."

Hs face warned of an impending lecture. Aramis braced himself, wondering what else he'd done wrong now.

"It is a dangerous game, Aramis, speaking with the queen as freely as you do."

"I'm not playing a game," Aramis said, very quietly, heart thumping.

"Aramis." Athos gave him a Look.

"The queen and I have had private conversations only twice, thrown together each time by a crisis that could not have been foreseen," he insisted, and this was perfectly true, yet did not come close to describing the connection that had been forged on those occasions. Denial was the only defence he had – against Athos, against the world…and against his own heart. "Happenstance. I am a Musketeer. It is my duty to protect her."

"Is it also your duty to hold – by your own admission – deeply personal conversations with her in the process?"

It was not possible, it was never possible, to explain afterward the ebb and flow of any given conversation. "You would rather we sat in silence and fear?"

Athos shook his head. "Don't misunderstand me. You are right that circumstance has thrown the two of you together on more than one occasion, and I am grateful, for the queen's sake, that you have been able to bring her comfort as well as protection. But because of this, the queen has come to think of you as a confidante, her own personal champion – and that is where the danger lies. I saw how you were with her at the la Blache estate, Aramis."

Aramis chose to play dumb. "When I swooned at your feet, you mean? A compromising position, indeed."

Another patented Athos _Look_. "Before that, before the attack – and then yes, when you swooned at my feet, I saw how the queen was with you, and if I can see it, others will also. Both she and the Musketeers have enemies at court, you know it as well as I, always watching for a weakness that may be exploited."

He was right. He was always right. Aramis let his head fall back against the pillow with a thump, wondering for the umpteenth time how he'd ended up in this position, _again_.

Athos stepped closer, placed a hand on his arm. "I am sorry. I should have waited until you were stronger to discuss this. But it is true nonetheless. If you allow this bond of affection to grow, no matter how innocent it may seem, it can and will be used against you, both of you."

"Fine," Aramis muttered. "Next time there's a crisis, she's all yours."

Athos snorted. "You and I both know that should another crisis arise, you will do whatever you must to protect the queen. As you should. All I ask is that you exercise a little more discretion in general. Stop…" He flailed slightly here. "Stop _looking_ at each other, at the very least."

"I can't promise that," Aramis admitted. He knew himself too well – and could not begin to speak for her. "But I will endeavour to be careful. I promise."

end

© J.K.B. November 2018


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